Photographs
by Accio Insanity
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's suicide John receives a photograph in the mail from an anonymous source but while the sender is still unknown, the man in the photograph is very familiar.
1. Receipts

John shuffled through his copious notes again. "There has to be something," he howled before slamming his palms down against the dark wood of his desk. The sound echoed through the apartment until it reached the ears of the only other person in the flat.

His hands fell much softer this time than the time before, suddenly cautious about damaging them after spraining his wrist. As far as he was concerned the only reason he had to keep his body intact was to solve this final case. Then he could rest.

"John?" Molly's head craned around the doorway, her brow creased in concern.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," John chanted although the words were convincing nobody, at least, not anymore they weren't.

In the beginning the phrase had meant that people would leave him alone but now that everybody knew that he'd lied constantly they tended to keep a much closer eye on him from afar. Either way, he regretted uttering the words repeatedly.

Molly slipped round the corner, pulling her nightgown taught around her waist. She had always had a certain grace about her late at night when she came to check on John. She was something so innocent yet alluring nonetheless; perhaps that was the reason he'd ended up in this sticky situation.

"It's late," She said before lovingly massaging John's rigid shoulder, "You should come to bed."

"Not tonight, Molly," John's eyes refused to lift from the clutter of papers but to flick to the plain gold ring that bound him to Molly.

It wasn't easy pretending to still love her. Three years on and that mistake of a night still wouldn't cease pressing regret upon him. Then again, without Molly he wouldn't be alive to keep searching; he'd have thrown himself off the roof the very next day, trying to hit the exact square of concrete that he had hit.

Finally John managed to tear his eyes from his disorderly scrawls to face Molly. Everybody knew that John had changed for the worst, falling into a deep dark pit of despair and grief, but nobody noticed Molly when he was nearby. Nobody had noticed how the life had sunk from her face, how she barely smiled genuinely anymore, how the bounce from her step had disappeared which left her gait to assume a motion so close to slinking that you couldn't recognise her by her walk any longer. John had destroyed her, just as he knew he would, but she was the only ground he had to balance on.

"Okay, I'll come to bed," he surrendered, feeling guilty. "Just let me pack up a little first."

Molly's frown lessened. That was as close as she came to smiling most nights.

He slipped into bed next to Molly but, as usual, there was no love or warmth there; just two bodies in a bed lying side by side through the nights.

John rose when the first morning light managed to creep its way beneath the blinds and into the room; the clock on the nightstand revealed that he'd lost three hours of investigation time. With a pang of defeat he left Molly, still asleep and tangled in the covers, and escaped to the bathroom.

The door clicked closed behind him. Isolated from the world, he allowed himself a glance at his sickly body for the first time in what he estimated to be around a month.

His eyes first fell on themselves. Both were bloodshot, dull and the bags underneath them were quite possibly bigger than the eyes themselves. The bags were so dark he could have been mistaken for having a double black eye and their puffiness contrasted so harshly with his now hollowed cheeks that he had once despised for being so plump.

Yet his face was not the only part of him that had withered away so drastically. Even now he could tell that his torso was not the almost stocky torso that he had once owned. He'd hated the pudginess of it but now the cotton pyjama shirt that used to fit him snugly when he was still living with him now hung off him in a strange way.

Ever so carefully John slipped the shirt over his head and came face to face with a body he barely recognised as his own. He could see every bone; he could run his fingers over every one of his ribs without struggling to locate any of them, his collarbones jutted out unnaturally and he could follow them to where they connected with his shoulders. Hesitantly he turned, watching his shoulder bones roll back. Now facing the door he twisted his neck as far as he could to observe what was left of his back. He could see each link in his spine where it projected through his pale skin and where every rib seemed to connect to it. He was inhuman.

It wasn't any wonder that he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything but coffee. He couldn't see the point of it when there were more important matters at hand.

He made sure his shower was steamy enough to block the image that he saw in the mirror.

When he finally sidled out of the bathroom, Molly was waiting for him in the living area.

"Good morning," She almost chirped, still trying to stay positive even with the full knowledge that everything was wrong.

"Morning, Molly," he sighed back at her. After seeing himself in the mirror for the first time in weeks he had come to the conclusion that he'd need to eat if he was going to survive long enough to solve the case. "Do we have any toast?"

It was the brightest he'd seen Molly's eyes since before Sherlock disappeared. "How many pieces? What do you want on it? Do you want coffee too?" The questions rolled off her tongue in her excitement but without fail, it was almost as if she'd rehearsed the words.

"Two. Strawberry jam, I know we have some. And yes, coffee sounds delightful," He gave her a faint smile and collapsed onto the couch.

Molly sat by her husband and watched him scoff down the breakfast she'd assembled. He'd been much hungrier than he'd anticipated. He'd abstained from eating for so long that hunger just seemed like a background noise rather than a necessity of life.

He swilled down the last of his toast with his coffee before snapping open his laptop already predicting that a stomach ache would disturb him later in the day.

"John," Molly sighed.

"Mm?"

"Can't you leave this for just one day?"

John sighed and reached over to snatch a leaf of paper from the desk, "Look at this," he handed the paper gingerly to Molly.

The contents of the page was a low resolution picture taken from a security camera. He'd shown Molly the picture many times but she still failed to recognise the man that John had repeatedly pointed out to her. The man and Sherlock had their similarities, striking cheekbones and a towering height, but they looked completely different; for one, the posture stood out, Sherlock walked with pride but this man slouched so much he looked like a hunchback.

"He was spotted in Washington, America three months ago but only by one security camera. Look, I know you can't see it," she had always been daft when it came to investigations, "But it's him and he's entering this apartment building," John prodded at the man again, "He's alive, Molly."

Molly patted his back in sympathy, like she did every day, and left him to his work.

This was yet another thing John had destroyed. Molly never gave up; even when there was no possible solution she stayed positive and hopeful. He'd murdered her hope and her happiness and left her as empty as himself.

"I've got to go to work," she mentioned.

"Mm." John replied already blurring out the distractions in the room.

She shuffled about the room for far to long for John's liking before the door leading to the hallway clicked shut behind her.

"Finally," he breathed, gathering a pile of receipts from a small box and rolled a map of the area around the apartment building in Washington flat on the table.

After working with Sherlock for three years he'd compiled a long list of contacts that came in handy when he needed information on someone. This case had stretched far beyond the usual London habitat but enough embarrassing and pathetic pleading with Mycroft had led him to the sources he so dearly needed.

The receipts he now spread about the map, in their respective places, were all things that the man in America had bought. Not only did he have a photo, but John knew the place the man had visited the most; a chemist where he purchased science supplies and chemicals. It also seemed that the man had started working there approximately three months ago, the same time that he was spotted outside the building.

This was more than enough evidence to prove that this was his beloved friend; even people who didn't know the man as well as John would be able to figure it out.

John swiped his phone from the kitchen counter and scrolled through a long list of names to find Mycroft's.

As soon as the phone stopped ringing John started listing his demands. "I need a plane ticket to Washington and a hire car. I know you can get me all the credentials I need to get into places without question."

"John," Mycroft's strange voice called, "The photograph was sent to you via the mail, yes?"

"Yes, but I can't see how that matters anymore. I'm holding a receipt from a week ago when he purchased a beaker from the chemist he works at."

"John, listen to me. Have you ever considered that somebody is trying to capture your attention and lure you into a circumstance that could very well end as my brother's did?"

"You're telling me that this is some elaborate trap?"

"John, they knew that you were Sher-," he stopped himself from saying his brother's name.

Last time he had dared to utter the word to John the poor man had collapsed in on himself. It was perplexing how he was managing to investigate something that was centred completely around a man whose name he couldn't say or hear and Mycroft had an inkling that he even abstained from thinking the name.

"They knew that you were my brother's most deadly weakness and they also know that it was reciprocated. I searched for the few months with my endless contacts to no avail. It's now been, what? Three years? And suddenly you anonymously receive a pixelated picture from what we can only assume is a security camera. Does this not strike you as odd?"

"All the other evidence adds up, Mycroft. The receipts, the residence lists. He named himself Leonard Quinto for crying out loud. He loved the concept of Star Trek and loved Spock even more!"

"Yes but this is all information that could be discovered easily."

"He's never been to America in his life! He assumed that all the people there would be as idiotic, if not more, than the people here in London. You can't forge a photo like this," his fingers traced over the cheekbones again.

"Perhaps not, but my objection still stands. I cannot supply you with what you require for it was my brother's last request that I keep you out of way of harm and I cannot ignore the frankly blinding possibility that this is the work of Moriarty and his accomplices."

"Moriarty is dead," John argued.

"But his friends are not. And I'm sure you understand that by friends I mean people who will willingly kill to avenge his death."

"I'll get a fake name," John suggested, losing hope again.

He'd always hated having to turn to last resorts but if it meant keeping John alive for just one more day, surrendering was much more rewarding than continuing to fight. "John, I have full knowledge that my brother's bedroom is still in perfect condition. I need you to go in there."

"What-"

"Just do this. Perhaps I should have led you to it before it got this far."

"Okay, I'm here."

"Under the bed, on the far wall, there is a panel of wood. Remove it and you will find a hidden compartment. He hinted its whereabouts in his final message to me."

John gazed into the dusty room. He'd kept the door shut since the day he disappeared and never dared to touch anything just in case he finally came back home. The place was still a mess, notes scattered about the floor and desk, laptop still sitting on the bed. If it wasn't for the copious amounts of dust, it almost seemed like he still lived here; working on their cases with his genius mind while John blogged about the event.

Ever so carefully he brushed books and paper aside and lowed himself onto his stomach.

"Are you there?"

"Give me a minute, will you?" John snapped. The whole experience was overwhelming and the memories of him pacing around in this very room clawed at his weak heart.

Employing the skills he once gained in the Army, John pulled himself beneath the bed, snaking a little to avoid a storage box. There was barely enough light to assist him in locating the panel but with his calloused hands scanning over the smooth surface he managed to grasp the edge of a plank of plywood.

Once John would have yelled at him for knocking a hole in the wall but now he was grateful for the long awaited contact of the two men, even if it was just a message left from him years ago. Inside the hole in the wall was a shoebox. It was light, like it was empty but a small shake proved that it contained paper. He replaced the panel before slithering back out into the light of the main room.

"I have it," he announced into the phone, suddenly remembering that Mycroft still waited on the other end.

"My brother asked me to give you clear instructions before you opened the box, John."

"And what would they be?" John asked a little more shakily than he would have liked.

"He requested that you take a trip to his grave stone with a thermos of tea and an extra cup for him."

John frowned at the peculiarity of his request but accepted it without further question. "Okay," he replied before promptly hanging up.


	2. Graveyard

John could barely see thirty feet through the mid-morning fog but he knew to route to his headstone like the back of his hand. Slowly but surely he navigated his way through the maze of rows and columns of the graveyard towards the single towering pine whose branches shaded his beloved friend's headstone.

His eyes began to prickle with the beginning of tears as soon as they found the cold dark shape through the thick fog; he'd never really grown accustomed to seeing that name on a gravestone no matter how many times he'd sat before it, sharing the evidence of his newest case in an attempt to kick-start his deductive thinking. He shuffled the shoebox under his left arm to reach out, as he always did, to touch the smooth marble surface, greeting it in the only way he knew how.

_"Goodbye, John."_

The words rung like the worst kind of siren. The last words that he'd ever said to him. There were so many things he'd wanted to say to him but had never got the chance to say.

"Hello, Sherlock," John tried to chirp the contradicting phrase but the words came out with a shameful stutter. "Er… I brought the tea like you asked."

He set down the thermos and the shoe box with the utmost care before plonking himself down so that the tea separated him from the stone. With that he reached around to pull two mugs from his satchel. The first was his own mug, worn and stained from use. The second was what he knew to be his favourite mug. The mug could have been mistaken for new, god forbid John had been forced to rewash it so many times; the white still shined and the black block letters that read "Spock" had not one imperfection.

"I found your favourite mug too," he said, a little smile returning to his lips. "It took me a while to find it all the way at the back of the cupboard but I found it."

John was sorely looking forward to drinking the hot beverage, it was yet another pleasure of life he'd surrendered because it had reminded him too much of better times which a disgrace like him did not deserve. Carefully he poured them both a cup of steaming tea, mouth already watering for the taste of it.

"Uhm… So obviously Mycroft told me about the shoebox or I wouldn't have this tea…"

He wasn't really sure what to say to the stone for all he could think about was the shoe box, the contents of which that he both desired and dreaded simultaneously but the time had finally arrived.

He vaguely noticed that tears had begun to roll from his eyes and gather at the tip of his nose. His hands shuddered as his fingers curled beneath the lid and pried it open. A wave of air escaped from the box, filling his nostrils with the smell of old dusty books and spilled coffee. The smell of chemicals and sterilised rooms. The smell of leather shoes and nicotine. The smell of him.

It was a smell so familiar and pungent that it triggered memories; some that made him smile and some that brought yet another tear to his already weeping eyes. John spent a long moment just indulging himself in the smell.

Finally the aroma subsided, drifting away in the breeze until John could only smell the dampness of the carpet of pine needles and the tart scent of the steaming tea. His procrastination had only intensified his dread and curiosity for the coffee stained paper inside the box.

He reached within the scent infused box and lifted the first leaf of paper from its resting place as gently as he would lift a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. He had taken some time to write these, it was obvious; he'd used a calligraphy pen and with great care too, there was not one smudge like there usually was when he wrote with an inky pen, and the paper was expensive and grainy, the type he'd only bought for special occasions. A grin crept its way across John's lips. He'd always pretended that he didn't care for simple things but the man had been very sentimental, especially when it came to art and to him, hand writing letters was an art.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the trauma he was about to put himself through.

_My dearest John,_

_Take a sip of you tea_

His hand flew up to his eyes to catch a tear before it had the chance to fall. With the tear still sitting in the very palm of his hand, he reached beyond the box to take his very first sip of tea since his death. It was sweet but had tangy aftertaste. It was strange. This wasn't his old flavour of tea, he assumed it was Molly's, but it was the only tea in the entire house.

_The first thing you need to know is why I did what I did and that I didn't have any other choice. _

_When I was on top of the hospital with Moriarty he told me that the assassins who were following us about London were stationed to kill you and everybody else and that while he and I were alive, you were in immense danger. _

_Do you remember the last thing you said to me in person John? You said, "Friends protect people." As you know, Moriarty killed himself as I anticipated beforehand and I was left with no other option but to fake my own death to save your life. Friends protect people. _

_By now it will be obvious that I am alive, but you probably know this from your own deductions. I could tell that you have always had the intelligence and that you just needed training. I know you will have been searching for me and you will know by now that I am living under a fake name, never staying in the same location with the same name for too long. _

John reached for the next piece of paper. This one, however, seemed different; the ink was smudged by droplets that could have only been his salty tears. This man had spent his entire life being called a "machine" and "heartless" most people didn't think he had emotions at all. John had seen him come undone twice in the years he had spent with him; once on the Hounds of Baskerville case and then once again just before he faked his suicide. Twice in the entire time John had known him, his friend had expressed fear but the times he had laughed, smiled and joked were countless.

_And I can't find the words to express my apologies for leaving you like this, but you needed to believe it or it wouldn't have fooled those who would want to kill you. _

_I'm sorry that I caused you so much grief, John. I want you to know that I never intended it go this way. If I had any control over the situation, I'd be in our flat solving the next case and you would have never had to visit the graveyard. Yet, it just so happened that everything and everyone was working against me._

_John, I need you to understand that although you are the reason I had to leave, it's not your fault. (I am becoming increasingly aware that I may seem condescending to you, I can assure that it wasn't my intent).I've wanted to explain myself for some time now, but words on paper just do not seem to do me justice._

_ I could go on, telling you about the exactly why I can't come back to London but that would jeopardise us both should this letter fall into the wrong hands. What I can tell you is that I am on a case that is very likely to be the death of me if anybody else knew. I am hesitant to even write it down should this letter be misplaced._

_John, I have no idea how long it is going to take before I can contact you again. In the mean time I want you to consider taking my job as Consulting Detective. You'll do well, much better than any of the idiots at Scotland Yard. I trust you with this._

_Please remember, when times get tough; you are the bravest, kindest and most worthy man I've ever known and I am truly privileged to have had you as friend. You've taught me more than you could ever imagine and I can't imagine what my life would be like if I had never met you but I can predict that I would be much, much worse off. _

_Take care of yourself; eat well and sleep well. I know I am hypocrite but you had the trouble when you returned from Afghanistan and I sincerely hope you don't have to endure the issues again. _

_Thank you, John. For everything. I dearly hope that you will be able to accept me when I return._

_~SH_

The letter drifted from John's palms, caught briefly by the wind before gliding towards his headstone.

John's fingers scrambled at the bottom of the shoebox, desperately grabbing at the last pieces of paper. His eyes shut tight for a few seconds while he flattened out the now wrinkled cardboard. Frantically blinking away the tears that blurred his vision, he gazed down as the glossy paper.

It was a photograph of the two men laughing together. He was grinning manically like he did when he was alone with John. He remembered the day well, Molly had taken the photograph in the morgue before he had even realised she was there. The moments following were packed full of hilarity with the slender man diving over the desk at her to snatch the camera away. It was utterly ridiculous and the only time John had seen the man, who was usually so proper, act so silly and childlike.

He had no idea that he would have asked Molly to give him the photograph, let alone print it. Although through the surprise John was glad of it; the memory had warmed his heart and left a vague smile stained across his lips.

Taking his time, he downed the rest of his tea, submersing himself in the fond memories of the man. However, it wasn't until he had begun gathering each piece of paper that he noticed the words scrawled on the back of the photograph.

_I never had a real childhood; our household was constantly busy with serious issues. You were and hopefully still are my first true friend and for that I owe an endless world of gratitude._

_~SH_

John flipped the photograph over once again just to take in the scene one last time before he returned it to the box.

John sat before the dark stone until the growl of his stomach grew too painful for him to ignore it any longer. Before leaving he poured the tea he'd poured for him on the grass covered patch before the headstone and guzzled down what was left in the thermos.

In returning the mugs and thermos to his satchel, John has the displeasure of grazing his fingers across his pronounced ribs. He finally had to admit that he needed to eat for reasons other than finishing the case; he needed to eat so that he was healthy for when he returned.


	3. Feast

With the peace of mind that he was indeed going to eventually return to him, John found that his appetite been renewed. He had only briefly stopped at the flat to return the box to his room before leaving for any good café within a one block radius.

Something deep within John had always known that he was alive and that there was some reason why he couldn't come back for John. He had evidence that the man was alive but everybody insisted that he was going through the 5 stages of grief.

"You're going through what we call the 5 stages of grief, John. Are you familiar with them? Denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance," his psychiatrist had repeatedly made the point. Needless to say, he had left her all too soon after the incident; even now he admitted he needed some support.

He'd even had the pleasure of people pointing them out whenever he displayed an emotion anything like one of the stages. If he could have been here he wouldn't hesitate on calling them all out on their all bullshit; John however was a lot more hesitant.

Still, the bitterness of his thoughts hadn't made the slightest of impressions on his hunger for now John moved to the sixth café and ordered yet another full meal.

When he had finished he'd devoured three sandwiches, one big serving of bacon and eggs and sausages (he'd left the tomatoes which had tasted slightly soapy), four coffees, a strawberry milkshake he'd bought on a whim, and a handful of jam tarts (his favourite had come from the ragged looking bakery he'd only entered by accident, he planned to return later on). He'd travelled a little father from the flat than he had originally intended.

With his stomach full to the bursting point, John ventured home on foot having made the mistake of spending his last note on the milkshake which he hadn't particularly liked.

The streets of London seemed much less drab and repulsive today. Golden sun pushed its way through every gap on the skyline it could find and streaked the streets with its warm glow. It was hard to see past the liveliness of the city; people bustling on their own personal missions, a couple of pesky squirrels chasing each other around the base of a tree at the edge of the gardens, and the soft breeze through the treetops. The city was filled with its usual soundtrack of the never ending police sirens but today it was accompanied by the ditty of a flock of small birds.

John took a detour that he rarely took, through the park. He wouldn't be home until late but today the notion didn't seem as preposterous as it had before.

The garden, which had been groomed into perfection just weeks prior, was disorderly with bright flowers of pink, yellow and red. Across the grass was a spattering of tiny white bell shaped flowers breaking up the vivid green of the possibly overly nurtured lawn. He took a step from the gravel path, feeling the spongy grass shift beneath his feet, and swept up a small clump of the flowers. The rich scent of onions occupied his nostrils as he brought the flowers to his face. Out of all the weeds humans constantly fought off, onion weed was by far the most pleasant, John thought. Molly, however, wouldn't approve of the smell in the flat no matter how handsome the flowers were, so John leant down and set them in a neat row on the edge of the path and then turned to head home.

Something stopped his feet from advancing along the rocky path, frozen to the spot reality begun to seep through the dappled sunlight.

"Something's wrong," He murmured seconds before the first spasm.

It fired through his abdomen like a bullet but it tore at his muscles like a fleet of razors flowing through his veins. Nausea swept over him and he gagged violently. He could feel the acidic bile reaching up, seeking an escape but there was something blocking it like a plug somewhere his is oesophagus. The second spasm felt like his stomach was shattering, like glass, into shards that lacerated his innards. His arms wrapped around his torso, trying to hold in everything that the shards ripped through. He looked down at his hands but there was no blood.

In the midst of his confusion came the third critical convulsion that left him beyond the point of being able to liken it to anything in the human world. This third spasm took him from doubled over to sprawling on the floor unable to sense anything around him.

His eyes burst open and through the blinding white light he could see the frontline. Men stood to both sides firing frantically into the distance. He'd seen this before. He knew exactly what was coming before the soldier even breached the embankment. Time moved agonisingly slowly as the bullet flew in his general direction. The brassy casing glinted in the sun through the smoke and dust. He had the time. Not like he had the first time. He dived away, sparing his shoulder but making one fatal mistake. The bullet pierced his torso like it was nothing more than air. It spun through his gut, cauterizing as it entered and shattering as it exited through his spine.

Reality snapped back as painfully as it had abandoned him.

Somebody was screaming. It sounded like his voice but he couldn't feel the strain in his throat. His body shook with yet another spasm.

A blurred figure came into view, into his real view, a figure he could only assume to be a person. The world turned white.

John woke alone in a start white room that smelled so heavily of chemicals that he almost felt nauseous.

He searches his sheets for the familiar remote.

"Assistance," he whispered, struggling to gather his frantic mind. He punched the button four or five times with a trembling hand.

A young male nurse entered the room within seconds. "I'm sorry you had to wake up alone Mr Watson. Your wife just left a few minutes ago."

"My wife…?" Oh, "Molly." He barely considered Molly as a wife; she was more like a convenient flat mate.

"I'll go get the doctor."

The nurse left John alone. Again. He wasn't a fan of being alone right now; hospitals had always meant something terrible when he was the one in the bed.

The doctor was a tall woman in a long white coat that was almost as stark as the walls. Her dark hair was tied back and it fell in tight rings between her shoulder blades. If he'd seen her at a bar, John would have tried to coax her to the flat but as a doctor, his doctor, she was far too intimidating to consider perusing her.

"Hello, John. I'm Doctor Leigh. I'm glad you're awake, how are you feeling?"

His stomach still panged a little but it was nothing compared to before, "I'm fine," he lied.

"Now John, your condition is very serious. I need you to be honest with me," she hinted that she knew he was lying.

"It hurts a little," John surrendered. "What's wrong with me?"

Doctor Leigh closed the door behind her, crossing the room to sit by his bed.

"We believe you have a condition called gastroparesis also known as delayed gastric emptying. It's caused by a number of things but we've talked to your wife, Molly, about your eating habits."

"I don't have an eating disorder, if that's what you think. Being skinny isn't my ultimate goal in life."

"Eating disorders are not only about losing weight, John," her voice was low and sympathetic, "They can be caused by grief or trauma too."

"Oh no," John interrupted her, "Don't you dare tell me about the '5 stages of grief'. It's sickening."

"I wasn't going to; the 5 stages of grief aren't accurate for most people. Most people only go through a couple of the stages and not necessarily in the order described. In any case, if I was going to diagnose you I'd say something along the lines of 'accidental anorexia' but considering that's not a real illness, I'm not going to." She paused with a flicker of a smile on her lips. It dropped away when she began to speak again. "Now, gastro paresis is when food remains in the stomach much longer than it normally would. In a usual stomach the food is passed through to the small intestine from the stomach by the vagus nerve but since you haven't been eating that nerve has forgotten how to do this that the right speed."

"Can you fix it?"

"There are a number of ways we can treat it but it may not be 100% effective. It might be as easy as changing your diet to something more consistent and healthy, there's a range of medication which we can trial you on, an injection of Botox pylorus and, if none of that works, we can implant a gastric neurostimulators," she took a deep calming breath. "Taking into account your eating habits, I'd assume that a change in diet may solve the issue."

"Thank you," John sighed, willing her to leave.

"We had to pump your stomach when you came into stop the pain. You've been fed by a drip for the last few hours and we can't let you leave until you manage to digest a solid meal. "

John nodded helplessly. There was nothing he could do about having to stay a few nights but he would have to convince Molly to bring in his work later on.

"Would you like me to get your mobile phone for you?"

John's eyes scanned every table top in the room until he found the dark shape of his phone in the far corner. "Yes, please," he replied, not keen to try standing after the incident in the park.

Her dainty fingers were warm where they grazed against John's palm, dropping the phone into it. He couldn't seem to avert his eyes from the jewelled engagement ring as she pushed up the sleeve of the coat. "We'll bring you your first solid meal in about an hour. You can leave your bed but I'll ask you to stay within your room and not get up unless you need to."

She smiled and left the room. Every ounce of happiness he'd gathered while he had company fled as soon as the door clicked shut again.

With an absent mind John unlocked his phone and checked the few 'get well soon' messages he'd received from every person who would still talk to him. They were sent with good intentions but John couldn't help but feel hateful towards them.

Finally he came to a text from Mycroft which contained nothing but the words, "Call me." So he obeyed.

Mycroft picked up the phone almost instantly. "John." The voice was stern but there was something else there, something John couldn't quite pick.

"Mycroft?"

"I'd hoped that allowing you to read my brother's letter to you would prevent this until his return."

"Prevent what?"

"The first I heard of this is that they thought your incident was a suicide attempt."

"No!" John accidentally raised his voice to alarming levels, "I would never, this whole time, I considered it at the start, not now. Not now." He let the words cross his lips before he had processed them into a legible sentence. "My stomach was paralysed," he admitted.

"Oh," Mycroft sounded distant, like he was thinking a previous action over.

"You're not telling me something."

"I can assure you that I am not lying."

"I didn't say that you were lying."

There was silence on the other end of the phone. When Mycroft's voice returned it was so out of character that John could have dismissed it as somebody else's voice, "I'm glad that you're alright John," and with that he hung up.


	4. Gastroparesis

John was cooped up in his tiny hospital room in his even tinier hospital bed for three days before he was given the clearance to go home. The time hadn't been entirely fruitless, however; Molly had brought him his laptop after his first meal but he hadn't been able to use it until later that night when the cramps subsided.

He had used this time to ponder Mycroft's last phone call with him. There was something strange going on behind the scenes, on the other end of the phone, but John couldn't quite pick out what it was. He was sure of one thing and one thing only; that he was the reason for Mycroft's odd behaviour.

By the time his observation period had ended, John had managed to put together another set of clues about the mysterious Leonard Quinto without access to the internet or any of the physical pieces of evidence he'd been able to collect over the last month or so. He only had the brief notes he'd stored on his laptop and the intermittent network on the hand-me-down smartphone he'd been given by him. At times he found himself waving the phone around in the air like an idiot.

He'd used the same name for quite some time now but before he was known as Leonard Quinto he'd been Mathew Tennant and Christopher Baker. One name for each year that he'd been missing. On top of this he'd moved three times. One name for each location and one location for each year. He'd been careful. These were all things he had suspected before but hadn't quite proved.

It was hard to find any cold hard facts when he didn't seem to publish anything to the internet anymore. Although John could understand that the use of social networks and such would compromise the task at hand, he wished that he'd left some sort evidence of his existence. Even his old personal email account, the one John had forced him to create so that he didn't get case files mixed up with potential case files, had been abandoned.

Prospects had looked bleak for quite some time but there were some quite unusual sales being made at small chemists; some of which John had managed to hack into with the help of his connections. Sure enough the items were purchased under these three names. Proof pieced together like the last few tiles of a puzzle after that.

On the last day of captivity, Doctor Leigh entered his room without warning and started talking at him before he managed to redirect his attention from his copious notes to her voice.

"I and a number of other doctors have taken a look at your scans and we're confident that your vagus nerve hasn't been damaged and should resume normal function with a gradual introduction of food," Doctor Leigh had announced before he left. "However, we will require you to come in for regular check-ups for the next few months just in case a change in diet doesn't improve your condition."

John nodded but said nothing.

"In most minor cases, like yours, a low-fibre and low-residue diet will be enough, over an extended period of time, to resolve and prevent further gastro paresis. Hopefully the diet won't have to be permanent for you. However, recovery is going to take time and you may still experience cramps each time you eat a reasonably sized meal but you shouldn't be hospitalised by them again if you follow a strict diet."

She smiled almost gleefully. She was beginning to become unnerving with her overwhelming happiness, infectious as it was.

"If the cramps start to affect your day to day life you can take some pain killers and if they don't lessen the pain, you can take this," she handed him a prescription of something that was scrawled illegibly across the paper in blue pen. "It might make you drowsy so just take one when you get cramps and only take one a day."

Before he left he was handed a thick booklet of his pre-planned diet which also provided an extensive list of consequences if he didn't follow the doctor's orders. Molly had been given a summarised copy of his dietary list and his appointment dates.

After a hurried pack up they were heading towards the cab Molly had organised for them.

Now that he was home, he didn't feel much like going to the hospital again. He was too glad to get back home to his internet and consistent phone reception not to mention the heartfelt letter Sherlock had written for him.

For the first few hours at home, Molly fed him with a silver spoon, insisting that he didn't need to stand.

"My legs work fine, Molly!" He snapped each time she pushed him back down into his chair and set his computer on his lap.

Time ticked on unbearably slowly as Molly had yet another cup of chai latte. The sickly sweet scent of rose petals mixed with a strange assortment of fruits filled the flat until the whole place smelled like the time he had been investigating flower types at the lab; a vile mixture of sweetness and chemicals. She has a bladder made of steel; he thought when she finally left him for the bathroom. Taking full advantage of his new found freedom, John escaped to his bedroom.

He sat in the dark, hoping that Molly would not think to look into the room John hadn't dared to enter for years. The room was cloaked in silence and dusty stillness until John lowered his still pained body onto the soft mattress.

The letter he had written for John wasn't like anything he'd ever written to anybody else. He'd never have disclosed his sentimentality for hand written letters to anyone other than John and even then he'd never even written anything for John, not so much his name or a simple word. The only way he'd expressed his love for calligraphy is through his violin compositions, the ones he'd decided to write down rather than only committing them to memory.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed as he vacantly watched dust particles dance in the midday sun at the window while he worked up the courage to unveil the nostalgic contents of the box for the second time. It wasn't until a large clump of dust, glittering in the light, combined with a smaller speck in his field of vision that he made his decision.

There was only one thing that he was sure of; he hadn't had a second thought about reaching for the candid photograph. He held it so delicately in his hands, careful to only place the pads of his fingers on the thin white border even though there were already countless oily fingerprints across the image from both his own handling of it and his - Sherlock's.

Sherlock.

His mind twisted around the word in a strange way; hesitant but benevolent, simultaneously pained but at peace. It stuttered through the sounds a few more time before he pushed it across his tongue and through his lightly parted lips.

"Sh-Sher-lock," His syllables stumbled shakily as his tongue moulded the underused noun. "Sher-l-lock. Sh-sherl-ock."

He flipped the photograph over in his palms and read the message again.

_I never had a real childhood… You were and hopefully still are my first true friend and for that I owe an endless world of gratitude._

"My friend, Sh-Sherlock."

He was still reciting the unfamiliar words when she shrill scream echoed through the apartment.

"Oh my god! Get back, get back!" Molly shrieked. Each word was overflowing with trepidation. "Who are you? Stop! I have a knife."

Molly.

John's mind raced.

His gun was upstairs. Why did he leave it upstairs?

As silently as he could in his panic he rummaged through Sherlock's nightstand. It was there somewhere; he'd returned it to where he knew Sherlock would keep it.

Where was it? There. There it was. But he there was no relief yet.

His mind whirred faster and faster with each passing second.

John slid from the bedroom with the gun-shaped lighter Sherlock had taken from the cabbie in their first case together. He hadn't held a gun since Sherlock disappeared but now he held it with the familiar precision that he'd thought he'd have lost by now. His fingers wrapped around the grip almost comfortably.

"Put your hands where I can see them," John warned routinely. His finger already twitched on the trigger in the hope that he could bluff his way through the confrontation.

The world slowed, just as it always did under this kind of pressure, and he assessed the situation.

The intruder was crouched at the door to the main flat, just outside the boundary of the house. If John shot him here, which he obviously couldn't with a fake gun, he wouldn't be able to appeal for self-defence. The man was curled so awkwardly that if he tried to escape, John could leap and reach him before he reached the stairs. John scanned his body for any more threats. In his slender, bony hands the man held a lock pick which was still poised at the height of the lock.

John couldn't see the intruder's face properly, his hat was low over his face and his scarf was pulled into a puffy mess about his neck, covering his lips from view but even with a major portion of his face was concealed from view, John could tell that the man was aghast.

"John?"

His voice was deep and proper but full of regretful fear. The man stood slowly; he was tall and slender and he too, like John, was lanky and underfed.

It was surreal.

He was seeing a ghost. A ghost he knew was not really a ghost. But a ghost no less.

"John?" Confusion. Fear. Regret. Heartache. Apprehension. His voice held them all.

John's hand held steady, automatically aiming for the shoulder. But it drifted. Drifted to a place he had only aimed at during the war. His aim drifted to the left of the intruder's chest. Over his heart.

He wanted to shoot.

The world was still.

He wished the gun was real.

The intruder trembled slightly.

He wanted to shoot the man before him.

He wanted to shoot himself right after.

He gripped it tighter in his fingers, willing it to become real.

He wanted to hurt him.

The world was silent.

Molly broke the silence with a defensive, "Who are you?"

The man didn't answer. He just looked at John.

John stared back.

"John?"

The man's voice squeaked through the tears he withheld. He was more confused and much more frightened than the last time he'd asked.

He wished the gun was real.

He wanted to shoot him and then turn the gun back to his own head and do the same.

He wanted…

He wanted…

Molly shrieked again, "Who are you?"

But John answered this time.

Without so much as a stutter he said the name.

"Sherlock."

The gun was steady.

The world was silent but John's voice rang clearly, echoing about their minds.

"Sherlock."


	5. Interrogation

5

Sherlock ripped the scarf from his neck revealing his perfectly sculpted lips.

"You're alive?"

The words pierce the silence like a blunt knife.

"The same can be asked of you."

Was he still holding the gun?

Sherlock took his first wary step to cross the boundary from the outside world to the place he'd once been able to call home. Now, with a pistol's aim floating between his heart and his head, he wasn't certain that he'd ever be able to feel at home again. He couldn't know for certain if John would allow him to find home here again; he'd known before he got on the private jet that John might not accept him but he never considered that this might be his method of rejection.

"John," he coaxed, taking another step to the soldier, his hat dropped from his head almost as if it were unintentional. His dark curls now dyed a dark auburn colour.

John's hand didn't even twitch as the man moved himself just and arm's length away; he only adjusted the gun so that it pressed firmly into the bony chest of his former companion. His eyes never strayed from the cold blue of Sherlock's weeping eyes. He could read the terror within them but somehow it made him happy; his suffering was John's joy.

Sherlock shivered with the collision of the gun to chest, through his fear he mistook the plastic barrel to be the familiar metal on John's own pistol.

London was more silent than it had ever been; even the usual soundtrack of police sirens and car horns seemed to disappear, fading out with every beat of his heart. His pulse spiked as John gave his hollow ribs another cautionary jab with the gun. The rush of blood filled his ears as he held in his last intake of precious air.

Under John's icy, draconian glare Sherlock's knees betrayed him. He collapsed helplessly to the hardwood flooring onto hands and knees hitting his chin stiffly on the gun during his decent.

"Please," he begged. "P-please, don't kill me." His voice creaked and crackled with each attempt at coherent word. "Y-you can shoot, j-just please, give me a chance," He bargained.

John's hand drew back from where the gun was now pressed to his… Sherlock's… brittle skull and his finger steadied itself on the trigger, pulling back.

He snapped the trigger back towards the grip.

The world ceased as he second guessed which gun he had grasped in the drawer.

Tiny sparks flew from the end.

Was it the fake gun?

John could only hope it was.

A tiny flame floated gracefully from the tip and flickered against Sherlock's disorderly curls. He inhaled the pungent smell of the burning cells.

"I would if I could," John conceded letting the plastic toy fall from his palm, letting it clatter against Sherlock's head and to the floor.

With the sharp jolt of the pistol colliding between his ear and his hairline, Sherlock remembered to let go of his withheld breath. The word "thank you" floated somewhere on the air of his exhalation. He was never quite sure if he'd whispered the expression to John or to some unknown force that somehow controlled his fate.

John watched the world pass by through the lounge room window while Molly sat in her chair holding a cup of her chai tea that had long gone cold. By the door Sherlock still knelt where he had fallen, the plastic gun neglected at his knees. Nobody had built up the courage to verbalise any of the countless thoughts that they held in their minds.

Another taxi stopped at the curb outside Speedy's to pick up a man holding a multitude of sandwiches. John's weary eyes followed the shiny black vehicle until it forced his gaze back inside the darkened flat.

Regarding the motionless room, his flustered mind finally landed on an appropriate question. He started his interrogation with a firm, "Why are you here?"

Sherlock's head lolled, still facing the ceiling, to gaze down his slender nose at John. A temporary lapse of aphasia swept over him while he struggled to piece together the words he so desperately needed to disclose.

"I thought…Mycroft… Mycroft told me that you attempted suicide, John."

John's heart sank in remembering Mycroft's strange phone call. "It wasn't."

To be honest, if it were anybody but John, a suicide attempt because of your actions would be quite flattering, or at least it would be to Sherlock. It would mean that you were important enough to somebody that they felt that they could not live on without you. However, this was John. Sherlock's last contact with Mycroft before his leaving for America was a request to keep John safe from everything; in particular he made it all too clear that John's most dangerous advisory was himself. That was part of the reason why he'd left the letter, sickeningly sentimental as it was; he left it to protect John from himself.

His eyes scanned up and down John's scrawny body. It was obvious that he had stopped eating; although, it wasn't entirely unexpected. John had been dangerously thin before he first moved in with Sherlock from the trauma of returning from the war. Mycroft had been too late in guiding him to his letter.

There was a faint, "oh," before Sherlock found his words again, regaining his composure slightly with relief. "He had a private jet planned for me within an hour since he received the news so that I could come back to London."

As soon as Sherlock stopped to take a jagged breath John shot the next question in his direction, "Why did you try to break in? Why not just knock?"

"I never intended to be seen. I thought you'd still be in hospital; a suicide attempt usually earns you at least a week under hospital supervision."

"But you had to get into the apartment? Why?"

"I was just going to leave a letter here, a letter for you but I assume it is irrelevant now." He sighed; touching a pocket which John could only assume contained the letter. "I didn't expect Molly to be here," he turned to her exactly like he would have if he had never left, with the same cold glares. "I suspect you were just settling John in back at home?"

John and Molly shared a tense momentary glance. Slowly John turned back to Sherlock where he still knelt just a few strides inside the door.

"Molly is my wife," John stated, wiping all emotion from his voice and face.

John felt a dull pang of satisfaction from the pained expression that creased Sherlock's brow and the bewilderedness of his glassy eyes. He couldn't help but be delighted by the way Sherlock's lower lip trembled with his heartbreak.

"Your wife?" He stuttered, trying to wrap his head around the idea that John had moved on from their once seemingly perpetual friendship. "You never expressed any particular fondness for her three years ago. What happened that convinced you that you loved her?" His voice had begun to rise in both volume and fury.

"Molly is in this room, Sherlock. I thought that maybe in your time alone you might have learned some sort of social skills," John snapped agitatedly, pacing about the room until he stood with the fake gun between him and Sherlock. "Molly, leave," he ordered harshly, "I need to talk with Sherlock alone."

"John," she whimpered, taken aback by his tone.

"Molly," he simply warned.

John's eyes stayed locked with Sherlock's for the entire time that Molly bustled about the flat while she hesitated on leaving. She'd known John's reasons for marrying her for some time now, his reasons were frighteningly similar to her own reasons for marriage; he was just too gentlemanly to admit them. Some time ago she'd hoped that John would grow to love her in the same way she adored him but every time their skin touched and every time they exchanged words, they was nothing but an icy coldness that could never be heated by her constant supply of coffee and tea.

Somehow she knew that leaving the two men by themselves was as dangerous as leaving John alone for too long. Deadly consequences could follow, especially with John's pistol upstairs. Then and there she made the decision to head upstairs, confiscate the gun and seek refuge just outside the front door.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled.

"No, you're not. You've never cared much for Molly's feelings."

Sherlock ignored John's comment, still trying to understand how this circumstance had come about. "You aren't happily married, even I can see that. So why did you marry her?"

With only a fake gun separating them, John didn't feel compelled to answer Sherlock's questions. "You have more to answer to than me."

"It's just one question, John. Just answer me this and you can continue your interrogation and I will answer. I promise."

"Your promises have never been overwhelmingly authentic before now," John said, holding his defence firmly. However, Sherlock's anxious watch eventually caused John to cave into telling the truth. He was, after all, the man he'd confided in, no matter how unhelpful he was, for three of the best years of his life. "I don't really know why I married her, to be honest. I was grieving and she was just there… I guess… she was the solid ground after you died and I didn't want to lose that. I married her to convince her to stay."

Sherlock stare was still, if not more, perplexed than it had been before.

"I can't expect you to understand grief; as far as I know, you've never experienced it. I thought you were dead for the first two years, Hell, it was only three months ago that I got any evidence that you were actually alive." He was quickly straying from topic, "I was grieving, your death hit me very hard and it's common for grieving, depressed people to seek out people who understand exactly how you feel. Maybe I don't love Molly, maybe I've ruined the sanctity of marriage by marrying somebody who I didn't and probably will never love, but without her I'd be dead and somehow I get the idea that she found some sort of steady ground in me." He paused, "Sometimes finding somebody as wrong in the head as you are is quite comforting. I didn't feel so alone in the world with her around and I assume the feeling was reciprocated in some way because she stuck with me. Without her I would be dead by now but she always offered such helpful words. As you said, there's no love there. I don't love her and she probably doesn't love me but we had something in common, our appreciation for you and the fact that we were both grieving. We just kind of stuck with it."

A defeated "Oh," was Sherlock's only reply and the room fell silent. John knew he hadn't understood and the chances of him doing so were slimmer than he had before after three long years. Sherlock was never particularly great with human interaction.

John could hear Sherlock's breathing as clear as a bell. It caused a confusing conflict within John. He was either wanted to wrap his steady hands around the man's slender neck until the air escaped from his lungs or he wanted to drag the man's face up to his own and press their lips together in some platonic clash of lips. He balled his hands into tight fists and shoved them into his pockets to prevent him from doing either.

Sherlock voiced his next statement before he had decided whether the timing was right or not.

"I missed you."

It was all too obvious that John didn't want to know when his balled fist collided with Sherlock's stiff jaw. There was an audible crack following the impact as a fracture tore through the weakened bone. He writhed backwards, legs tucked awkwardly under his torso and hands holding his jaw tenderly. Through the blinding white of pain John's figure appeared above him.

"You have no idea what you've put me through. I thought you were dead. I haven't been living for the last few years. I've barely been surviving."


	6. Unlocking Doors

**I'm sorry it has taken so long to get this one done, I've had a lot of other commitments and events that have prevented either the time I need or my creative flow. **

* * *

John forgot to eat for the next day or so, too preoccupied with the unexpected arrival of Sherlock to remember to do much else. He'd managed to confiscate the lock-pick before Sherlock left with Molly for the hospital so he would no longer be able to break into the apartment. Still, in the name of caution, he planned to change the locks the day after.

It wasn't until Molly arrived home from work the next afternoon and laid out a light breakfast for him that his anger subsided and was taken over by pure guilt. He had the full knowledge that while he told Sherlock about the circumstances of their marriage, Molly had been pressing her dainty ear to the wood of the door, catching every word that was uttered.

She was a smart woman, John had no hesitation in acknowledging that she had probably deduced his feelings towards her long before their wedding day, yet he still had a terrible sense of remorse about articulating any of it especially when he had told a man whom he had not seen in years and not Molly herself.

Yet the predicament was not caused by whom he had chosen to confess to; rather, it was intensified by Molly's everlasting benevolence in any situation. A kind hand and encouraging words felt like swords and daggers to John and for some unknown reason Molly had plenty to give.

Her good intentions first pierced through John's tough skin when he heard the faint tinkles of cutlery as they collided with each other and by the time she had coaxed John into sitting at the table with a meal made especially for him, he couldn't find it in his heart to avoid the conversation anymore.

"Molly," his voice trembled already. "I think we need to talk about the other day."

Molly stopped dead in her tracks, frozen in what seemed like fear. She skilfully folded the napkin in her hands into a precise square and laid it on the wooden surface of the dining table. Finally she spun on her heel to face her husband, twisting cautiously at the ring on her finger.

"I know you heard what I told…him," he stated, spitting out the word 'him' unconsciously.

She took a deep breath. "I know you don't love me. I've known since the start."

John's stomach dropped, eradicating his hunger once and for all. "Then why stay here? Why put up with me?" His voice was barely audible through the remorse.

"When Sherlock died… faked his death" she paused to correct herself, "I knew that you'd take the blow harder than anybody else would so I set it upon myself to keep you on your feet. I needed to do something because I couldn't help but take a major amount of blame for Sherlock's suicide." She took a steady gulp of air into her lungs, assessing John's face, "I knew that you didn't love me but I wanted to make sure we wouldn't lose you too."

John raised his eyebrows slightly in both admiration and overwhelming shame

"I couldn't say no when you asked me to marry you. Confused as I was by the gesture, I knew there was no possible way that you were in the mental state to live alone without any support. You left me with no options."

"You never loved me either?" John stammers, confused by what he was managing to piece together through the bombshells Molly was dropping.

"Oh, I loved you. I still do, I don't know why. I just hoped one day that you'd either fall in love with me or at least get better at pretending."

John let his hands fall from where they were curled beneath his chin. "I'm so sorry Molly."

"Don't be. I accomplished the first task and it was easy compared to what's to come." Molly released the tension that had spread from her shoulders across her chest and down her spine, exhaling as the warm pulse of her blood slowed and flowed about her body again.

Sherlock's face flickered through John's mind, "Yeah, about that… I'm getting the locks changed this afternoon so I'm going to have to go and get another key cut for you," he informed in the hopes of steering the conversation away from their relationship.

"Don't you think that's a little…" she paused to find the right words, "…drastic?"

"He picked our lock and he might have a key stashed away somewhere in London. Chances are he'll try again. He's a psychopath."

This wasn't a word that John had ever used himself in the context of Sherlock, the familiar label was one given by the bitter Sally Donovan. Jumping from one conclusion to the next, Molly snapped, "John, you know I don't like you talking to Sally Donovan. She always makes you so much worse and I'm to one who has to deal with-"

"It's true though, isn't it?" John intruded, "And for the record I haven't ever spoken to her, she speaks _at_ me."

Molly nods uncertainly, "He might not be the most reliable man but there's one thing I do know, in fact he wouldn't stop telling me, he missed you to the point where he was driven half mad."

"He's always been mad," John huffed.

"You can deny it all you want but even I can tell that he was being genuine. Now eat," Molly commanded sternly, leaving John alone with his meal.

It was late afternoon by the time the locks to the flat had been changed and after a long few hours getting keys cut and handing them out to Molly and Mrs Hudson John had finally collapsed into his armchair. He was just reaching for his laptop when a fist wrapped on the wood of the inside door.

Warily John crossed the flat and peered through the peep hole. His eyes blinked through the dim light of the hallway until they focused on a familiar stature guarded by shadow.

He ripped the door open, rage already swelling.

"How dare you come back here," John snarled, keeping his voice low so as to not alert Mrs Hudson.

"John," the husky voice replied, his gaze visibly softening.

"Don't you 'John' me," he mimicked, "You don't have the right to be here."

His expression morphed into something like a mix of shocked and agonised it was hard to tell through the gloom that obscured his face with shadows over pronounced cheekbones. John had that strange sensation of wanting to both break one of those cheekbones and run his fingers tenderly over where the shadows hit.

"Leave," John commanded, proud that he hadn't stuttered.

"John," Sherlock bellowed, taking one cautious step from the shadows into the light that poured from the flat.

He clenched his jaw anxiously and turned his face slightly revealing a monstrous bruise that consumed the bone and snaked over his hollow cheeks in a blue and purple stain only broken by a bright red crack in his flesh. John withheld a smirk upon seeing the full extent of his work.

"I deserved more than this," he admitted, wincing slightly at the pull of skin under the bruise. "It was only a fracture."

John furrowed his brow in utter disarray.

Sherlock reached out and tentatively curled John's fingers into a fist.

"What are you doing," John said, snatching his hand away. "You're even more psycho than you were before."

Sherlock's voice became frantic, "I deserve everything you want to do to me. I deserve a broken leg, another bruise, to be stabbed, anything. I deserve to be punched over and over until your arm weakens. I deserve your hands around my neck," He seized John's hands in his and guided them around his slender neck, "strangling me."

John froze, mesmerized and bewildered by Sherlock. He could do it, strangle him until he feinted.

"I hurt you John. Now it's your turn."

His hands were still clamped around the pale skin. His thumbs wriggled their way over the jugular into the perfect position. He'd strangled a man before but this time it was going to be satisfying.

"Do it."

John's eyes flicked up to Sherlock's. They were red from the tears he was determined to conceal but the thin trail down his cheek proved that his effort was in vain. He kept his eyes locked onto a spot just above John's head obviously not able to make any sort of eye contact.

"Do it," he growled desperately.

John's fingers twitched over the muscles, pressing slightly. His unblinking eyes stung as he too attempted not to blink out of fear of bringing any sort of moisture to his eyes. He looked up again, this time catching Sherlock's gaze.

He had to do it, he wanted too. His eyes slid from Sherlock's neck and shoved him but John caught the stumbling man by the collar as he collided with the wall.

It was happening before John could process the thoughts.

He was pulling Sherlock down a few centimetres and he was pushing his body against him. He was capturing Sherlock's thin lips with his in a clumsy open mouthed clash of lips. It was uncoordinated, Sherlock not quite sure if he should kiss back or not. John's hand slipped around Sherlock's neck tenderly this time and pulled Sherlock closer.

Finally Sherlock interpreted John's actions and begun to push back against him, using his full weight to guide John back into the flat they had once shared. His lips guided John's into a slow rhythm from their initially violent clashing while his hands explored John's shoulders caressing over where he could feel the gunshot scar through the thin cotton of his shirt.

John finally gave in to the temptation and ran his fingers through Sherlock's unruly hair. This was something he had wanted to since they'd first met. It felt different to what it had expected; it was soft not course and it was surprisingly tangle free considering what it looked like. He buried his fingers deep in the hair, entwining his fingers as he took back control of the kiss.

His heart pounded in his chest and he swore he could hear Sherlock's beating in response. He let his tongue flick against Sherlock's lower lip which earned him a soothing moan and Sherlock's hot breath against his on lips. He clutched onto Sherlock's hips and pulled him forward roughly.

Sherlock's frisky fingers had just brushed across the waist of his trousers when Molly cleared her throat.

John flattened his palms on Sherlock's chest and shoved him again and watched him as he plummeted to the ground where he landed in a crumpled heap with wide eyes staring up at John.

"Molly," he said, trying to sound apologetic but not honestly feeling any guilt about what he had done.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I shouldn't have… I should have just left and you might have made up," she couldn't convince herself to make eye contact with either of them.

"Get out," John growled at Sherlock who simply whimpered before removing himself from the room but not leaving.

John rushed to Molly with his stretched arms out, welcoming an embrace.

Molly shrugged the arms from her as if they felt wrong now. "This was inevitable. You've always loved him, even if you denied it whenever you could."

John's arms dropped and his mouth moved to speak but no sound managed to pass through his lips.

"You lost him once. Don't let him slip away again."

"He left me, Molly. He didn't want me then so I doubt he wants me now."

"I read the letter he wrote to you while you were in the hospital. He left to protect you. He wanted you alive. Any idiot can see he's in love with you."

John was silent.

"Don't let love escape again. There's nobody like him."


End file.
